


The Cracking Canvas

by IncessantCalibration



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5641000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncessantCalibration/pseuds/IncessantCalibration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Josephine's disastrous decision brings an unwelcome guest to Skyhold, the gang must come together for the greater good, even if it requires putting a bit of make up on and facing down the demons of the past...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cracking Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> 'Beauty is power; a smile is its sword.'  
> \- John Ray

There was a level of purpose to the Inquisitor’s unhappy stride that made everyone nervous. It wasn’t so much the pace, or the length of her steps, but the force with which each foot struck the impenetrable stone beneath it. It was ferocious and committed, everything that made Inquisitor Lavellan the only person to lead the Inquisition, the only one who was able to stop Corypheus and save Thedas from itself. And yet, when that walk carried her across the great hallway and directly to the war table littered with plans and maps, even her gathered group of companions shivered as they heard the march of the Inquisitor ring ever closer, like a cruel teacher approaching the class you hadn’t done your homework for. The door swung open with violence and slammed into the flanking granite walls, delivering a chilling toll of her presence. She was here, and she wasn’t happy.  
‘Right!’ she announced in a thunderous tone, her face looking like stone cold fury.  
‘Josephine,’ she never called her Josephine, ‘has informed me of yet another visitor coming to Skyhold in the approaching days. You will make him comfortable and be courteous at all times.’  
The irony of the Inquistior asking for courtesy, when she actually looked like she was ready to tear someone apart, not least their mystery guest, brought a wry smile across Varric’s face.  
The inquisitor snapped, ‘Something the matter Varric?!’  
Luckily, Varric was about the only member pf the gathered party who was able to get away with being cheeky at this particular moment.   
‘No, no, Herald! It’s just that I struggle to see how can we be courteous when we don’t know who this guest is? I presume you were just getting to the bit where you tell us if they’re friend or foe? Elf or dwarf? Ugly or sex-‘  
‘THE GUEST IS A PAINTER FROM ANTIVA CALLED…’  
The pause lingered far too long and held everyone in their statuesque positions.  
‘IAN.’  
Silence sat in the room like an overweight troll, ugly and cripplingly grotesque, clenching everyone’s tongues, and shocking all into paralysis. All except Solas who, unsurprisingly, looked exactly the same.  
Cullen, heart of a lion, began,  
‘And what exactly is the purpose of… Ian here, my lady?’  
There was deafening nothingness until the Inquisitor drew up a long breath and spoke aloud,  
‘Josephine received a report from the Western Approach regarding morale, it was the one you passed along Commander Cullen,’ she was now referring to everyone by their official titles, echoing the horror of her mood, ‘and Josephine discussed the matter with several of the guards here at Skyhold, thinking that a foot soldier’s opinion was the one that was needed. They said that a symbol of our “mortality” and “sense of humour” might make the fear of everyday duty a little less hard to bear. And so, without my permission, she invited a former “friend” of hers she knew back in Antiva when she was growing up to create an “Inquisition Calendar” to show off every part of our… mortality.’  
Where had once been silence, outright revolt erupted. Smattered somewhere among the profanities, was Bull’s booming laugh. None was more vocal, however, than the holy Seeker.  
‘You must be joking!! Send him back at once, I want nothing to do with this “calendar”!!’  
‘Unfortunately, the soldiers said they wanted to see you in it more than anybody else...’   
The deep scar running along Cassandra’s cheek was suddenly surrounded by a red flush like a river of blood running across her features. Her eyes scanned the room, large and bulging, like they only did when she was terrifyingly stunned, and words mumbled and stuck in her closing throat like too many soldiers retreating out of a too small a gateway.  
The Inquisitor continued, ‘And Josephine has already sent the payment, the significant payment, to… Ian.’   
Pain still rung in her voice every time the word ‘Ian’ came out. This only added to Bull’s amusement.  
‘Then we better get down to it!!’ bellowed the great Qunari. ‘Care to get back in the gym to prepare Varric?’  
‘If it’s anything like last time, I’ll pass,’ replied the Dwarf. ‘But if we’re going to miss out on some money, we might as well make it worth the Inquisition’s while. The soldiers put their lives on the line every day for you,’ a large leathered finger prodded at the air in the direction of the Inquisitor, ‘the least we could do is give them some fun. I’m in, but only if you are, Blondie?’  
A flustered Cullen, shot a glare across at the smuggler, sighed deeply, stroked his hair like he was hoping a witty answer would fall out of his peaked locks, only to be sadly disappointed.  
‘I suppose the Dwarf is right, if the price has been paid, and it’s too late, the least we could do is provide some amusement for those at the Western Approach, and ONLY those.’  
The look on Cassandra’s face was priceless. ‘COMMANDER!’  
‘Well if big muscles is down for a bit of nudeytime, I guess I could, but if I hear any sniggering, it’ll be arrows in between the eyes, got me, shitfaces?’ followed the unmistakeable tone of Sera.  
‘Skin exposed, muscles taut, light dappling across open thighs, there, sitting, the magnificence of Cullen’s-’   
‘THANK YOU COLE,’ cut the brutal voice of Blackwall. ‘I’ll do it, but you don’t need to make it any harder for me.’  
‘I didn’t think I could get any harder either,’ smarted Dorian, eyes scanning the Commander, preying on every squirm, soaking up every self-conscious twitch. ‘But yes, I’m most definitely in.’  
This was the moment Dorian had dreamed about, the chance to style, dress and perform without the need to tone down. However, he also knew, out there, in the barren wasteland of the forgotten Western Approach, there was someone, someone he used to be. Closeted, afraid, and alone among those who would ogle at the fearsome Seeker Pentaghast’s refined lines, he would only see pleasure in a man’s frame, in the triangulation of his ribcage or the breadth of his shoulders, of the unconquerability of his legs or the unshakeable nature of his hands. To him, the silent soldier, Dorian could say, without saying a word, ‘You are not alone’.  
‘This is unbelievable!’ Cassandra stood shaken, her mouth almost reaching the hilt of her sword. ‘We are the Inquisition! Not a ragtag bunch of part-time models!!’  
‘Darling, there will be nothing “ragtag” about my modelling,’ cut Madame du Fer, flicking over her hand and inspecting her fingernails, whilst simultaneously delivering a razor sharp opinion straight to the heart of the increasingly agitated Seeker.  
‘Please, Solas, you must see the error in this! We cannot have even one of us drop out, and if you agree with me then-‘  
‘Actually, Seeker Pentaghast, I am, for one, behind the idea.’  
The room was, for a moment, deprived of air. The party all took a swift gasp, relieving the room of the necessary oxygen for life, and had someone entered, they would have struggled to survive the atmosphere. That went as much for the gaseous state, as the vitriolic tension in the room. Vivienne had even decided to look away from her perfect fingers. However, Solas’ verdict had been the final straw.  
‘I WILL NOT TAKE PART.’ The Nevarran royal stormed out of the room, hand firmly on her hilt and her mind unshakably on her beliefs. Like trading vessels in the Free Marches, just as Cassandra left the room, Josephine entered, a large smile adorning her bronzed complexion.  
‘So, my love, have you addressed the idea to the group?’  
The image she was met with was nothing she had ever seen. Each person was either hunched over the table, staring at the famed negotiator in disbelief, or turned away, cold gazes fixed on the mountainous peaks outside. It was a horror show for her, yet somewhere inside Jojo’s head it was a marvellous image that she wished could have been captured. If only Ian could have turned up one day earlier…  
Slowly, the group one by one exited the poisonous room; first it was Commander Cullen who had given a nod to Varric and Leiliana, and only a look towards the silent, barely-contained storm that was their Herald. Seconds later, Solas, and then Varric, until soon the entire group recognised Josephine was not leaving and neither was the Inquisitor, who was yet in fact to move a single, toned muscle. The last to leave was Cole, whose spiritual sense was not quite in tune with the emotional sensibilities of the gathered ensemble. With a poof of air, the two lovers were alone, with nothing but the maps for company.  
In truth, Cole was not the last to leave, as eventually Josephine’s smile made a final break for the open door. In its place sat a confused, sad expression followed by shuddered words.  
‘What… happened?’  
Jojo was not a person to be outright refused, and the way she had courted rooms of the most devilish ambassadors and nobles, left her in supreme confidence of her ideas. But she was rather more open with her colleagues, those she had now considered friends, and the way she felt with in an empty room with the only person, her love, with her slim back facing her, ripped her apart from the inside. The posturing of the Game at least meant that when it destroyed you it had taken nothing but a persona, a dream of fancy and success. But when your friends had left you alone staring at a body of rejection, the one Josephine placed higher than all, it took so much more away.  
Finally, the Inquisitor moved. She took a noticeably long breath and turned. Josephine saw a twinkle welling up in her eyes, the water rising to the surface, like the creeping mistrustful thoughts she had allowed herself to hear. As Lavellan moved slowly round the table, still in complete silence, the twinkle grew larger in view and in her eyes, until it was in full control, a river of tears ready to burst its banks. As they came within each other’s reach, so close they could touch, Lavellan rested her head on the canary yellow materials that dominated Jojo’s shoulders, and brought her into a close embrace. Josephine was still just as confused and unaware of what had happened both in the group and to her fearless partner. Lavellan lifted her head, pointed ears stroking Josephine’s tanned Antivan skin. Finally, the quiet lovers spoke.  
‘All I’m saying, is that I hope Ian is good at painting “disgruntled noise”.’  
A crack formed across Lavellan’s face, a smile of a troubled mind, but also the first symbol of a recovering love. The pair grasped each other again, tighter this time, and spoke long into the day, privately alone, delving, discovering, and finally, loving, in the empty room, across the silent maps. 

‘For the last time, you irritating boys, his full name is Iania, and that is exactly how you will refer to him.’  
Josephine glanced over at her lover and the pair shared a smile of mutual agreement at Jojo’s impressive handling of the giggling, sniggering boys that had gathered for the first part of their calendar. Bull had indeed been spending more time at the gymnasium recently, working on his ‘Pommel Strike’ but reports from Nightingale’s spies had suggested he had been spending more time in the mirror’s company than with his sword. Though, if the Iron Bull had been spending a significant amount of time at the gym, Varric had practically lived there. Despite, at first, promising the occasional trip, and only once the Qunari behemoth had vacated the premise, he had soon found a strange love for the weights. The hand that had coddled a pint of Fereldan bitter at the Hanged Man and coaxed the finest out of vicious Bianca, was now in tune with some of the heaviest equipment in the estate, and his sprint times were getting more and more notable. This, however, brought the greatest amount of conflict within Varric, for the prestige that came with his physical achievements also came with the narcissistic shame that Varric tended to try to avoid. He was an effortless beauty; that was part of the charm. Shame, however was not alone amongst the gathered boys. Cullen had, secretly, been visiting Dorian for some ‘top tips’ on male manicures and hair-styling by candlelight, in return for the overlooking of Dorian’s visits to the restricted section of Templar writings. The Tevinter mage had been itching to devour these texts since his arrival, and this exchange of ‘knowledge’, as Dorian had so tactfully put it, left the pair in a secret binding contract that could ruin their reputations, especially if the Seeker got the slightest smell of it. The fear of that religious bloodhound on their scent kept both on the right side of their agreement. Finally, Blackwall, Solas and Cole had not even mentioned the event, mainly because Blackwall and Solas did not wish to discuss it, and Cole still didn’t know exactly what was going on.  
‘So when will we be able to see the Seeker get her portrait done?’ enquired a Dwarven voice from the front row.  
‘You will be painted one at a time, Varric,’ Josephine issued a heavy-handed pause, ‘in private.’  
‘But I’ve been waiting to see Lady Pentaghast squirm since I got here,’ added the Bull, a picture of disappointment.  
‘Silent crying, the hidden glances in the frosted windows no one sees, the echoes of a laughing past, the scar that haunts…’  
It was Cole. Nobody was quite sure what he was saying, but the awkward tension he had built was soon broken by the crash of easels and the sprawling image of a small, tanned man balancing several brushes across his chest and a canvas rolled up under each arm.  
‘I believe our virtuoso has arrived,’ said Blackwall, watching the comedic character halt in the doorway.  
Iania’s eyes scanned the room frantically, as if he were checking for a rift erupting with demons, half cowering behind his equipment, half making himself the obvious target even if there were.  
‘My darling!’ Jojo ran forward, throwing her arms around her friend, who looked at her as if the Antivan negotiator was the demon he was looking out for.  
‘That’s Ian?!’ started the Inquisitor, ‘I mean, Iania, such a pleasure to have you at Skyhold! I’m sure you’ll enjoy your time here!’ As the Inquisitor assessed the image of the bumbling, ill-prepared mess in front of her, a feeling of relief spread throughout her entirety. Body relaxing, her shoulders sunk down, like the questioning sun setting in to the sea of realisation. Josephine dragged the painter over to the Inquisitor and kissed her on the cheek, squinting up at the love of her life.  
‘This is the famous Inquisitor Lavellan, and my partner in this whole horrid affair!’  
‘Does that mean when this whole thing is over, you’re going to forget about me?’  
‘Hardly, my darling. Who could forget about you?’  
The boys didn’t know where to rest their eyes. The picture of the newly reformed Inquisition love scene was enough for Bull to almost bring up his protein-rich breakfast, whilst Solas couldn’t quite handle the sight of Iania, a human with quite so little control over his limbs.  
‘Right! Who do you want to start with?’  
Josephine had, typically, got everything ready for Iania’s arrival. With board in hand, she had organised Inquisition servants to set up a space in Blackwall’s barn for the inner circle to, one-by-one, be painted; just enough away from the prying eyes of Skyhold’s main quarters, yet smutty and fantastical enough for the soldier’s imaginations.  
Despite Iania’s eyes flickering wildly from light to shade, from person to horse, he had noted Solas’ instant displeasure and took aim. A solitary finger rose from his shaking body, spilling yet more brushes on the floor, announcing, ‘That one.’  
Just as the group gazed at Solas in shock at this decision, Ian continued, ‘The BALD one.’  
Cullen couldn’t help himself as a laugh bellowed out of the Commander’s great frame, clad with even more furs than usual.  
‘You should hold your tongue, Commander,’ said the elven mage, failing to conceal the antagonism rising up within, ‘I understand I am an apostate but I am not unwilling to remind you of my abilities. As for you, my artiste,’ he had lathered the word “artiste” with enough sarcasm to fill one of Varric’s less successful novels, ‘I would be most glad to be your first subject. I will take your choice as a compliment.’  
A solitary, barely-audible humph came from Iania, like a hunted squirrel taking its last breath.  
‘Well then,’ Josephine’s positivity cut through the tension like an arrow, ‘I think this calendar is ready to begin! Let us give Iania some room; I am sure he will come to retrieve us when he is ready!’  
The Antivan lady promptly ushered the party out of the barn, the morning light piercing onto the spot of stacked hay bales where each individual would take their turn. Solas, with only a momentary glance back to the crouched painter, sauntered up to the illuminated area, silent and cat-like, and analysed the scene. He elegantly slid into a sideways lying position, propping his head up with one hand and gripping his staff firmly with the other, epitomizing a sassy king gazing across his conquered serfs from a particularly farm-like chaise longue. Varric had slipped under Josephine flapping, golden arms just long enough to see the elven apostate’s lithe decline.  
‘The demi-god look suits you, Chuckles,’ shouted the dwarven smuggler, just before Josephine clenched a hand full of Varric’s jacket and tugged him away, leaving nothing but Iania, the elf and an ironic smirk contorting his sharp features.

The early morning light that had peered into the barn like a shy teenager, silent and inconspicuous, was now comfortably present, illuminating the master at work. Iania had, one after another, worked his way through the Inquisition team with remarkable speed, flashing across the canvas with broad and confident brushstrokes, only pausing momentarily to capture a single image of magic with precise and critical detail. He was a big game hunter, who would suddenly stop to catch a rare butterfly in a glass jar before pining it to the canvas. He was to all who had the privilege to see him, a genius; he was able to see what others could not, could commit to a task with tireless energy, and was, most-importantly, absolutely mad. His genius was his imperfection, the ability to discover a creative nuance nobody else could reach nor comprehend. This, of course, did not stop certain members of the Inquisition trying to do so. Ian had let out a childish, piercing scream when Dorian had questioned the overuse of shade on his “best-side”, whilst the Bull had taken the tavern bard’s lyre to several of the practice dummies in the courtyard, bellowing ‘BREASTS! THEY LOOK LIKE BREASTS!’ after discovering Iania’s less than flattering perspective of his significant pectorals. The toughest task of all, however, was Cole. The boy spectre vaporised back and forth after every stroke, wanting to see the master’s work, questioning each image, each colour, each expression. Cole was still getting use to having a corporeal form, let alone it being captured on print, but after Lavellan had explained the calendar’s purpose, he was more than happy to help in any way possible. The Herald was thankful he, at least, wasn’t stabbing things or scaring the kitchen maids. Nevertheless, the ceaseless teleportation had brought Iania to his wit’s end; and just in time for the final model, Cassandra.

‘I told you, Josephine, I will have nothing to do with it!!’ the Seeker flicked away a firm hand, swatting Jojo’s suggestion out of thin air.  
‘Look, Ian- I mean Iania has worked so hard and everyone has been carefully portrayed; I promise there is no vulgarity!’   
Josephine enthusiastically swung round, grasping at the fresh portraits, showing Cullen in a regal pose clutching a broadsword in both armoured gauntlets, hair immaculately taut and primed, Sera with her back to the viewer, but holding five or more arrows in one hand, plaidweave billowing across her slender shoulder, and Blackwall, one foot on a log stump, stroking the magnificence of his beard. Josephine went to grab another one but seeing Varric straddling a sleeping dracolisk, licking his lips suggestively, would have defeated her argument.  
Yet, Cassandra, her back to the silver-tongued Antivan negotiator, cared nothing for Iania’s style. She released a deep sigh as she looked down at the training arena below the tower window, memories seeping into view, like blood corrupting clean water. She could hear the calls of the boys laughing at her picking up a wooden sword, and entering the worn circle, mud squelching between her uncle’s oversized boots. In her heart, she was the warrior she wanted to be, but to the world she was a noble of the chantry, a girl destined to be amongst the white pages of the books, not the scarlet-stained silver of the swords. One after another, the boys would fall, the white pages falling behind a curtain of blue-green bruises. They would scamper away, leaving the little chantry girl, sword aloft, a cry emerging from her throat. And, just like last week, her world would crumble once more, her uncle’s unconquerable gloved hand on her shoulder, the fearsome man standing above the champion of the mud. He would tell her all that she was, was a little girl, with a little stick, in the broken soil. As time rolled on, she witnessed things no child should see, and her heart hardened, resolved upon the task of righteousness. The scrolls of the past and the prophecies of the religious fulfilled what her soul had lost, her mother, her father, her brother. And now at the end of the world, she was back with her demons again, but, this time, they came in the form of her friends.  
‘I could slay a thousand ogres for you, Josephine, because that is who I am. But I… I can’t do this.’ She slowly looked over her shoulder, defeat holding Jojo’s eyes in a vice.  
‘Yes, you can.’  
From behind Josephine came the Inquisitor. The dalish woman walked forward, each step unshakeable, just like she had done when the plan of the Calendar had been hatched, but there was none of the fury now.   
‘Do you think I wanted to do this? It is ridiculous, a completely idiotic idea.’  
A small gasp crept out of Jojo’s bronzed face, turning to her lover with an expression of comedic offence, but Lavellan was focused only on the image she could see in front of her, the little frightened girl in a Seeker’s armour.  
‘I am a warrior, just like you. I see the foes that need vanquishing and all I want to do is kill them all. They take what they do not understand, and this stokes a fire within me that cannot be put out, and sometimes cannot be controlled. This leads us to yet more ridiculous adventures, we fight impossible odds, we deal with non-negotiable people, we ally when our minds tell us not to, we control people’s lives with a single command. All of this is impossibly ridiculous. But what I am asking you to do is to not kill anyone, not talk to the enemy, not interfere in the lives of thousands. I am not asking you to be your family’s poster-girl, I am not expecting you to be a girl of the Game; but a woman of the Inquisition. One that helps.’  
Cassandra wanted to move but her feet wouldn’t let her. Her uncle’s hand was still on her shoulder, keeping her in place. She moved back to the window and saw the woman she was expected to be, the Nevarran noble, expected to sit at tables and say nothing, but Lavellan’s words rung in her ears.  
I am a warrior, like you.  
I am not asking you to be your family’s poster-girl.  
But a woman of the Inquisition.  
One that helps.  
She smirked and the imperfect window twisted her looks into a mirror of ugliness. Turning to her leader, she commanded the words to leave her mouth,  
‘On one condition. I get to wear what I want.’

The light was fading fast and Iania, like a hyperactive lion in a cage, was pacing up and down the empty barnyard scene. On sight of Cassandra Pentaghast, striding across Skyhold’s courtyard and clad in full Inquisition Ceremonial regalia, he spat on the floor, face twitching as he grabbed the final canvas to paint. Had Iron Bull’s horns not given them all away, the “hidden” inner circle all rose out from behind Madame’s du Fer’s balcony wall and saw the image of the invincible Seeker, marching ahead of Josephine and Lavellan, towards the wooden barn.  
As the exiting sun twinkled off Lady Pentaghast’s shimmering shoulder guards, Varric roared out across the courtyard, ‘Bit much clothing for a smutty calendar, don’t you think Seeker?’  
Cassandra, without a moment’s thought, replied,  
‘Bit much tongue for a stupid dwarf, don’t you think Inquisitor?’   
Admittedly, the stupid part could have been exchanged for something wittier, but she was a warrior after all, not a bard. Luckily, it produced the desired effect, as a chorus of laughter burst out of the faraway balcony, and the Bull’s thunderous palm slapped right between Varric’s shoulders, causing him to almost lose all his teeth.  
‘That’s my girl,’ whispered the Inquisitor, as she took Josephine’s hand and guided the Seeker into her worst nightmare with the confidence and strength she knew the Seeker always had within her.


End file.
